Strangers Like Me
by EvanescingSky
Summary: Ireland spies on the strange boys who live on the main continent, by The Roman Empire. She wants to go talk to them, to see if she can make friends, but Scotland and Máthair have forbidden it. Will that stop her? Of course not.


I don't really know...I had that song, "Strangers Like Me" from Tarzan stuck in my head...it made me think of this...Which, by the way, is in NO WAY historically accurate XD

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><p>Strangers Like Me<p>

Ireland peered through the trees and shrunk back against the trunk of her hiding place when she caught another glimpse of the strange being below. She edged along a branch and watched them. One spoke quite loudly in a language she didn't recognize-it sounded like gibberish to her. The other two replied in softer voices.

The loud one had silvery hair and red eyes. The other two had golden hair, a bit like Arthur's, paired with ocean blue eyes and brown hair with green eyes, respectively. She'd been watching them for quite some time now, but hadn't dared to approach.

To be quite honest, she'd never spoken with anyone outside of her own family-The Celtic Tribes, Wales, Scotland and England. Occasionally The Roman Empire would pay her a comment or ruffle her hair, but for the most part, he ignored her.

She harbored a burning curiosity about these boys, whom she was almost certain were country mascots like her, and wanted to be friends. She'd never wanted for a friend aside from her brothers, but now that she saw it was possible, she ached for it. Everything they did fascinated her-even their different looks. She'd never seen anyone with red eyes or skin as tan as the green eyed boy's.

She crept a bit closer, thinking she might swing down and talk to them, when she heard a rustling behind her. Even as she turned, something slammed into her and knocked her down into a large bush.

"What are you doing?" a voice snarled in her ear. She wriggled out from under her assailant and saw Scotland, looking more furious than she'd ever seen. She almost took a step back from him.

"I was just looking," she said sullenly. "What's it to you anyway?"

"What are you doing HERE?" Scotland asked through gritted teeth. "Answer me!"

"I don't have to answer to you!" she fired back. "I can go wherever I want!"

"You should never cross the English Channel!" Scotland growled fiercely. "There's no need to!"

"You've been here before!" she exclaimed. "What's with you? You think that because you're one corkin' year older than me you can come over here and I can't?"

"It's not like that," Scotland snapped. He grabbed her wrist and started to pull her along. She followed, but jerked her wrist free. "This place is dangerous! There are people here who will hurt you! I've never come back after the first time." He turned to look seriously at her. "I mean it Ireland. Those countries out there are not your friends. They're like Sir Rome. They want you to be part of them." He scowled as he led her back towards the beach.

"Why?" Ireland asked, her green eyes wide. "Why would they take what isn't theirs?"

"How should I know?" Scotland asked irritably. "Because that's what they do."

"But Scotland, they can't all be bad," she wheedled. "Those boys looked nice-they were about our age. I think they're countries too!"

"That doesn't change what I told you," Scotland said stubbornly as they emerged from the trees. Ireland sighed.

"Is this why Máthair* never wants to leave the islands?"

"No, she's just reclusive," Scotland said. He turned around and gave Ireland a shove. "Like a certain someone else I know."

"Me, reclusive?" Ireland gasped.

"Yeah. Unless you expressly have need of someone around, you like to be left alone," Scotland said.

"So do you!"

Scotland hesitated, then grinned. "I guess so. Maybe it runs in the family."

"Maybe," she repeated. She and Scotland left Europe, but Ireland's curiosity still nagged her day and night. She decided that if Scotland wouldn't let her go see the other countries, she'd find her own way.

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><p>Scotland paid a last visit to Europe that he swore to never tell Maerad about. Taking a short sword he'd made for himself (With a bit of help from Sir Rome), he sailed back and hit the shore of France. He hunted through the forest for that stupid blond and when he found the boy, he lunged at him from the trees, pinned him against an oak and held the sword to the back of his neck.<p>

"Wahhh! Let me go!" France wailed. "I didn't do anything! I swear! Don't kill me!"

"If I see you so much as look at my sister," Scotland began, his Latin so distorted it was barely recognizable, "I'll scatter your entrails from here to the Southern tip of the Roman Empire." He'd learned this phrase from Sir Rome, on one of his visits to The Celtic Tribes.

"Okay! Okay! Just let me go!" France begged. Scotland released him and vanished back into the foliage before France got a look at him. He rubbed the back of his neck and sniffled. Blasted heathens, the lot of them! He hoped they stayed over there on their islands-he didn't need any more visits like that.

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><p>Her first idea came to her when she was doing laundry. She reached up to pin a damp sheet to her laundry line and the wind whipped it nearly out of her hands, making it billow out like a great big jellyfish. She watched if for a moment, feeling the strike of inspiration.<p>

Of course! She was too small to row their little boat across both the Irish Sea and the English Channel, but perhaps she could get the wind to do the work for her! She hid the sheet away in a basket and later that day she dragged the boat across the beach to the water and tied the sheet to a pole, which she held in place in the center of the boat.

She gave the boat a shove and she started moving out. The wind pulled hard at her makeshift sail and she had to hold on with all her strength, but she was moving!

She didn't get very far, though, before the sail was jerked from her grip and her boat overturned by the strong wind. Then she was left to drag the boat back to shore while attempting to keep her head above water and explain to her mother that she'd lost her bed sheet.

She got a sore scolding and a spanking for losing the sheet, but her mind was still turning over ideas.

Mayhap if she had something lighter to let the sheet pull. So she fashioned a long, oval-shaped wooden board, as thin as two fingers with a hole in the center. In the center, she stuck a wooden pole that Wales had whittled down for her. She nailed another, smaller pole across that one for her to hold onto and then Wales helped her attach another sheet. All in all, the thing took her two months to contrive and build, by which time Scotland mistakenly assumed she'd headed his warning and forgotten the strange countries across the water.

"You know, Máthair's going to kill you if you lose another sheet," Wales told her.

"I know, I know," she said impatiently. "But this'll work! I know it will!"

She hiked her kilt up to keep it dry and waded barefoot into the water, dragging her contraption after her. Wales watched from the beach, wondering if his sister wasn't just a mite off her rocker.

When she'd gone out what she judged to be far enough, she managed to clamber onto the board and toss the sheet out. For a few heart-pounding moments, she wobbled back and forth, in great danger of falling and soaking her sheet (Which would make it useless), but then a breeze caught the sheet and she took off.

The board went much, MUCH faster than the boat, but it was very hard to control. She swerved back and forth, right and left, trying to get a feel for how to steer. She let out a laugh, elated that it worked at all.

"Whoo! Angus, look at me go!" she yelled.

"That's amazing!" Wales shouted back, impressed.

The wind whipped up some larger waves and Ireland angled her board to crest over them, but she misjudged and it started to tip. She frantically tried to change position, but it was too late-the board went over. When her head broke the surface, she gulped in several breaths and then ducked under to try and rescue her invention.

Her lungs screamed for oxygen as she fought to pull the thing, now weighty with saturation, up against the pressure of the ocean. At last she gave up and started to paddle for shore. As she dragged herself up, water-logged and light-headed, Wales ran over to her.

"You okay chwaer*?" he asked. She nodded, biting her lip.

"Máthair's going to kill me," she cried. Wales shrugged as she pulled herself to her feet.

"I told you so."

For losing another sheet and doing "such a fool thing as I'd expect from one of Sir Rome's grandsons", Ireland received another spanking and a two-week ban from the beach. Scotland also refused to speak with her for the next three days, which stung more than any of Máthair's punishments. She and Scotland were as close as twins, for which they were oft mistaken.

"I'm sorry," she said after three days.

"You should be. I warned you," he replied.

"I know."

"Don't do it again." She nodded, fingers crossed behind her back and they went off to chase fairies.

But she did. She augured a hole in their boat with a chisel and braced the pole there with a coating of tar, fresh-brewed in Máthair's shed. Then she tied their last sheet to the pole and grabbed the oars.

"If this doesn't work, I'll let it go," she promised, pushing the boat into the water. She jerked on a rope, tightening the sail and set about paddling away. Stunningly enough, it worked. With a small pit stop in England (Arthur was too little to tattle on her), she managed to make it to France by the evening. She was tired, but she forced herself to start walking anyway. She found the forest where she'd seen the three boys fairly quickly (Under forty five minutes) and then yawned widely. She decided to sleep for a bit; just quick nap. She found a nice looking bush and curled up underneath it, cat-like.

When she woke, sunlight was streaming through the bush. She stretched, feeling a bubble of anxiety in her gut. Máthair and Scotland would be furious with her for being gone so long. But she was here and she might never get another chance to explore, so she knew she had to keep going.

Creeping through the bushes, she found her way to a small cove. It looked like somewhere the Fae might inhabit, she thought. The grass was soft beneath her toes and the trees circled this open space just big enough for one or two to make camp. It was sheltered from rain and snow, but sunlight was still able to filter through with ease. The whole thing was a brilliant green shade with a few scattered blossoms.

In the midst of this small haven, a boy was slumbering on his belly, with one hand tucked up by his face. He was the golden-haired child she'd seen before!

Keeping hidden in the bushes, she edged as close as possible, but it was still too far. At last, she stole out of the foliage and shuffled over to where he slept. For a few moments, she just regarded his face. He looked much more feminine than her brothers-with fine, light eyelashes and sharply defined features.

She sat down on the grass and reached out tentatively, brushing his hair out of his face. He had a smooth complexion, free of freckles as Arthur and Angus were-not like her and Ian. He stirred in his sleep and she withdrew like a startled animal, but he merely rolled over onto his back. She stretched out, kneeling in the grass to get a look at his strange clothes. They were so bright and fancy! She looked down at her own saffron-colored kilt and animal skin shirt and frowned.

_How can countries so close be so different? _Ireland wondered.

Her soft rustling in the grass woke France and when he blinked his eyes open, he saw what appeared to be a savage peering down at him. With her wild, untamed mane of red hair, which had twigs and leaves in it from spending the night beneath a bush, bizarre clothes and shifty expression, he was sure that she was someone that brute Scotland had sent here to kill him. He shrieked in a less-than –manly way and skittered away from her.

"Stay away from me!" he cried, holding up his hands to ward her off. "I haven't done anything, I swear!"

Ireland tilted her head to one side, wondering if there was something frightening behind her. She looked back. Seeing nothing, she realized the boy was frightened of HER. The idea was so ridiculous she laughed. Then she got to her feet.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said, smiling crookedly. Her words sounded like heathen gibberish to France, who spoke only Latin and the beginnings of what would become French. She, on the other hand, spoke no Latin whatsoever.

"No, please!" France begged as she stepped closer. "Gil made me sleep out here! It was a bet! I swear I didn't have any bad intentions! Don't kill me!"

Ireland threw up her hands. "Calm down! Scotland hasn't gotten to you, has he?" She crossed the distance between them slowly, like one might with a frightened animal. France shrank back until his back hit a tree. She tapped his shoulder, lightning fast and then darted away. France stared at her, wondering that she hadn't hurt him. She watched him curiously, then risked another venture close in, tapped him again and dashed off just as fast.

"Come on!" she urged. "I tag, you run…Don't you play over here?" France didn't move. Ireland sighed-making friends might be harder than she expected. She walked back over, jabbed France in the shoulder and before she could get away, he poked her back, experimentally. He stood there, waiting for her reaction.

Her face split into a bright smile. "That's it! But now you have to run!" She tagged him again (His shoulder was started to get sore) and disappeared through the trees. France hesitated a moment, but then chased after her. After all, when a mysterious girl shows up in your home and wants to play tag, you play, right?

She proved extremely adept at swerving through the trees and had no qualms about stepping on near about anything barefoot. However, once they broke into open ground, he caught up with her. He lunged forward and they both tumbled to the ground.

"Tag," France panted.

Ireland laughed again. France leaped back and she took off after him. The two children played until they both collapsed in the grass, panting. Ireland flipped her hair over her face, letting her neck get some air.

"I know a place where we can cool off," France said suddenly. She moved her hair out of her eyes and looked at him. He got to his feet and started back to the woods, gesturing for her to follow. Ireland got up and cheerily followed after France. He led her to a river running through the trees.

"Oh! We can go swimming!" she exclaimed, delighted. She immediately stripped off her clothes and jumped into the water. France was simultaneously aghast and fascinated. But propriety won out.

"Ai! You can't just get naked!" he protested uneasily. "You're a girl and I'm a boy!"

She looked at him curiously.

"What's wrong? Don't you want to come in too?" she asked. Ireland had grown up bathing and swimming and generally running around naked with all her brothers. She saw no reason why getting naked in front of France should be any different.

France had grown up in a place where women were to be kept separate from men in almost everything-contrary to what he told Spain, Italy, Romano and Prussia, he had never actually seen a naked girl.

"Come on, don't be shy!" Ireland urged. "The water feels so nice." She splashed around a bit and ducked her head under, letting the water run through her long red hair. France shrugged. It was her call…He left his clothes on the shore and waded in. The water did feel incredible, rushing over his flushed skin.

Suddenly, a blast of water caught him in the face. He rubbed his eyes to see the redhead grinning at him, her hand poised to splash him again.

"Oh, ho! Is that how you want to play? Big Brother will show you how to really splash!" he announced. It turned into an all-out splash war, which ended when France, forgetting himself for a moment, tackled Ireland and then remembered they were both nude.

He pulled away, apologizing profusely. She sulked for a moment and then let it go. They both climbed back onto shore and moved to sit in the sun to dry off.

"Doesn't it bother you to be naked in front of me?" France asked her. He couldn't get around this novel idea.

"I wish I could understand what you're saying," Ireland said. They fell silent again. France decided to try and communicate better.

"Hey." He nudged her shoulder to get her attention, then put a hand on his chest. "Francis. I'm Francis." He pointed to her.

After a moment, she got the idea. "Maerad!" she said enthusiastically, tapping her flat chest. "My name's Maerad." France smiled at her. It made her stomach twist in a pleasant way.

"Maerad," he repeated, his tongue stumbling over the strange name.

"Francis." They realized how ridiculous their names sounded on each other's tongues and laughed.

"Do you know the song 'The Wren'?" she asked. France looked blankly at her, so she started to sing. "_The wren, the wren the king of all birds; St. Steven's day was caught in the firs. Although he was little his honor was great; jump up ye lads and give us a treat!" _

Her voice was beautiful and France was mesmerized. When she finished, he clapped and took his turn, singing a Roman drinking song. She laughed and applauded when he was finished. They went back to the river bank and gathered up their clothes, trading off songs as they re-dressed.

France pulled out a wooden comb and tried to jerk it through his hair. A small, calloused hand clamped over his and tugged the comb free. Ireland started to sing again as she combed the knots from France's hair.

"Sometimes my Máthair does this for me," Ireland said softly. "But most of the time she doesn't."

"You know I can't understand anything you're saying. Don't stop talking," France said.

When she finished, France made her sit down so he could return the favor. It turned out to be a much more serious endeavor than he had planned-her hair came down to her waist and hadn't been combed for weeks. They were like that when Scotland came charging through the trees, howling like a war party.

"Get off my sister!" He cannoned into France and knocked him aside, pinning him to the ground. France gave another girly scream.

"No! She came to me, I swear! Let me go, let me go, let me go! I don't want to die!" France wept.

"Deartháir*, no!" Ireland cried, jumping to her feet. She grabbed Scotland's arm and pulled him off France.

"Ireland! I told you not to come back here!" Scotland shouted. "What's the matter with you, Ireland? And you!" He turned and pointed his short sword at France. "I told you to stay away from her!"

"You!" Ireland gave Scotland a hard shove. "You sabotaged me!" Green eyes met brown and they glared at each other.

"Of course I did! This pervert is a grandson of the blasted Roman Empire!" Scotland retorted.

"Scotland." Ireland turned to pleading. "I've never had a real friend. _Please. _France is my friend!" She looked past him to France, still on the ground, who was watching the exchange with wide blue eyes. "We've been playing together all day! We played tag and sang songs and went swimming and France was just brushing out my hair."

Scotland looked at her for a long moment. "But Ireland-" he began weakly, begging her with his eyes.

"Please deartháir," she repeated, hanging onto his arm. Scotland looked over at France.

"I'd never hurt her! I promise!" France would have promised anything in presence of the Scottish bully. Scotland looked up at the sky and then down at Ireland.

"I don't like it," he began, "but I can't stop it. Just promise you'll be careful?"

"I promise!" She threw her arms around Scotland and hugged him tightly. "You're the best deartháir ever!"

"And you're the best deirfiúr* ever, so don't do some fool thing that'll get you taken away from me," Scotland told her, hugging her back. Ireland was surprised. She and Scotland loved each other for certain, but it was usually expressed with a slug in the arm or a hard shove. He was being unusually sensitive today.

"Promise," she whispered.

"In any case, you'd better get back home," Scotland went on as they broke off their hug. He offered France a hand and jerked him up to his feet so fast he nearly tripped. "Máthair's ready to kill you."

"I figured as much," Ireland muttered, rubbing the back of her head. She looked to France. "Bye Francis," she said, giving him a small wave. He waved back, tentatively.

Scotland and Ireland headed off into the trees and the two new friends locked gazes one more time before Ireland vanished into the trees. She smiled-success.


End file.
